Our Time
by heymamawolf
Summary: If life is for living, then what is death for? Mason and George are both trying to find out after yet another member of the gang walks into the light.
1. one

**Disclaimer: **_Dead Like Me_ doesn't belong to me. R for language, but that should come as no surprise to anyone who has seen the show. Title and lyrics by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

**Summary:** If life is for living, then what is death for? Mason and George are both trying to find out after yet another member of the gang walks into the light.

**Our Time**

_I may be dead honey  
But I was left with my eyes  
And my heart baby  
Is cold and blue  
We're two of a kind baby  
Me and you._

**1.**

It had been five years ago today Daisy Adair had gotten the "ultimate promotion," if you will, and finally got the fuck out of this place. As much as she hated to admit it, George _was_ kind of sad to see her go. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to that woman than blow jobs and upscale, postmortem thievery and she secretly hoped that Daisy would find whatever peace she so desperately needed in whatever place she was at now. But so it was. People came and went, and if George learned one thing early on from Betty's short, yet somehow profound, impact on her afterlife, it was not to get too attached to her fellow reapers. Existence is but ephemeral, and the biggest mistake reapers made was thinking they were alive and invincible, immortal even. They weren't a part of this world anymore, and it was only a matter of time before the next one was there to claim them. George wasn't generally one to listen to authority figures, but Rube was right; when you get too attached it just made all this shit so much harder. So indeed, people came and went, and George tried her best not to get too comfortable with anyone.

Mason, on the other hand, was a different story. He took Daisy's abrupt and unannounced leave as a personal offense. Sure, he'd never go so far as to concede that he was starting to fall for this woman – whether it was purely hormonal or somewhat emotional, he was unsure – but it was pretty self-evident when his booze binges and excessive drug use reached unprecedented proportions. Sure, things settled down after a while, but Daisy, Daisy Adair certainly left her mark, whether she knew it or not.

Shortly after her departure, Mason started to make more frequent visits to his former place of residence. It was generally at night, pretty late in fact. George would already be in her pajamas, watching some television before getting ready for bed. It had become a routine. At 10:52 exactly, the door bell would ring in the middle of whatever lame sitcom repeat Nick at Nite was airing, and George would drag herself up from her comfortable spot on the couch to open the door with a scowl. And there Mason would be with a sly smirk and hopeful eyes.

At first she was sure she had Daisy to thank for the visits. That maybe he wanted to be reminded of her, so he'd come to where she used to live and maybe that alone made him feel better. But she soon realized it wasn't just that. George could tell that there was something different about him. Something almost fearful. Mason didn't want to spend his nights alone; _that's_ why he came. He didn't just want company, he desperately needed it. Despite all the ridiculous shit he did and got himself into, he was as harmless as a fly, and George felt bad just throwing him out on the curb. Then there was the fact that Mason – in all his fucked up glory – was slowly becoming the first real friend she'd ever had. The old George would have turned and run at the sheer thought, but the newly deceased George took a foreign comfort in his presence.

"Georgie! Did I wake you?" Mason burst through the front door enthusiastically with a big grin plastered across his face as a faint whiff of alcohol followed him in.

It was 2:30 AM and she had clearly been sleeping; her eyes were squinted, her hair a mess, and one pant leg pulled halfway up her shin.

"Yes, Mason, you _did_ wake me." She croaked grumpily and moaned indecipherable obscenities as Mason plopped down on the couch and started flipping through channels.

"Well then, good thing you're awake now, yeah?"

George groaned again as she let herself fall over the arm of the couch and landed face down in Mason's lap, eliciting a loud, "bloody Hell!"

"Serves you fucking right." She mumbled, starting to drift back to sleep.

"Darling, it's Friday night and you're sitting here in your pajamas, half dead. No pun intended. If this isn't a sad scene, I don't know what is."

"Mason. It's 2:30 AM." She mumbled into his lap again.

"Yeah, and?" He shot back nonchalantly as he continued to channel surf.

"And for those of us who actually have _jobs_ and don't spend our every waking hour getting completely and utterly _wasted_—oh fuck it. It's fucking late, Mason, and we all know how grumpy I get when my precious hours of sleep – which are few and far between considering how hard it is for me to even get there – are interrupted. What do you want?" George turned slightly so she was resting on her side, and pulled her legs up, curling into a ball on the couch.

"Ooh, feisty. That's what I've always loved about you, Georgie-girl." Mason laughed as he rested a hand on her head and began to stroke her hair. Immediately, she smacked his hand away, prompting him to raise his hands in mock surrender and laugh more. "I must say, your bedside manner is absolutely brutal. I really don't know how you expect to snag any fellas if you don't try to change your ways, darling."

"I don't want any 'fellas,' I just want my _sleep_." She was desperate as she sat up, a heavy frown weighing her down.

"Oh Georgie, come on now. Don't give me that face. You can give me the satanic death glare, but please not _that bloody face_."

She pouted her lips, desperately fighting off the urge to smack Mason upside the head and kick him out the front door. She rarely, if ever, resorted to pity tactics, but after dealing with Mason for this long, she knew full well it was the only thing he responded to.

He stared at her, grinning devilishly before reaching out and to hold her chin. "Slumber party, whaddya say?"

George reached out and shoved his arms back to himself. He laughed loudly before finally conceding.

"Okay, okay! You realize I just love seeing that burning hatred in your eyes, yeah?"

She shook her head, clearly not amused, and stared at him expectantly.

"Can I crash on your sofa?"

She looked back at him, uncertain, as if to say, 'you have your own place, Mason. Go there.' He scratched the back of his head and ruffled his hair nervously.

"I know, I know. It's just— you know, same old shit. Just…Please, Georgie."

"_Georgie."_  
"_Mason."_  
"_Do you think about how—how tomorrow could be your very last day here? How after your next reap, you could never see this bloody world again, and you could just be—gone. Forever."_  
"_Sometimes."_  
"_It's fucking scary, man."_  
"_Yeah, it is."_  
"_Yeah, it's really fucking scary."_

George shook her head sadly and looked back up at him.

"Yeah, of course. Fine. Whatever." She mumbled under her breath as she turned around to head back to bed. "But next time, just pick the lock. Seriously."

Mason instinctively reached out and grabbed her hand. George turned around slowly, clearly still unamused. "You realize an open invitation is a dangerous thing." He joked playfully. The smile on his face quickly dissipated when he realized she didn't see the humor. He coughed and nervously looked away, letting go of her wrist. "You'll stay here for a little bit, will you?"

George rolled her eyes at the words that were quickly becoming a recurring theme . She looked at his uneasy form, and cursed herself for not having the heart to just say no. She sighed heavily and hung her head as she plopped down on the couch once again.

"Sure."

_**TBC**_


	2. two

**2.**

It had been a long day, and all George wanted to do was to come back to the comfort of her home and not think about anything. She wanted to sit down and turn her brain off; to forget about what she was, where she was, and who she was. She just wanted silence. So needless to say, walking through the front door only to see a lanky Brit lounging on her couch simply added to her mounting aggravation. And much to her chagrin – but not to her surprise – he was feeling friendly.

"Hey there, mate." He called out as he rested one leg on the coffee table and the other across the length of the couch. His head sat on the armrest, but he slid his neck down so he was staring up at an upside down George.

"I am _not_ your _mate_." She croaked, in that oh-so-welcoming, sarcasm-laden tone that had become her trademark. She walked in front of the couch and swatted his legs away so she could take a seat, and with a heavy sigh, heaved herself downward, covering her exhausted face with her hands.

"You know, nothing comes on the bloody telly during the summer. Why is that? I mean, why waste my time watching a fucking reality television program, when I can go outside and observe reality in person? Television executives are fucking morons, is what they are." Before George could let out another breath, Mason's mouth was moving a mile a minute. "And another thing: I find it hard to believe that you have no alcohol here. An absolute travesty, it is. This environment is not at all capable of fostering a healthy living atmosphere without at least one bottle of hard liquor in the kitchen…_Maybe _seven."

"Jesus! When I said you were free to come around, I didn't think I was signing up for a fucking Siamese twin!" George screamed out, finally finding a window of opportunity to cut Mason off in mid-ramble.

"Shit, what crawled up your trousers and died?" He asked, excited for the chance to egg her on a bit more. He knew that with George came three things: sarcasm, pessimism, and a complete and utter disregard of authority. Although it was the latter he found most attractive, the first two also suited her quite well. And in fact, he was pretty sure it was precisely those three things in unison that kept them on such good terms over the past seven or so years.

"Shut the fuck up, Mason."

"Things not so happy at Happy Time, eh?" He asked, lifting his legs and resting them on her lap. She finally took her hands off her face and gently placed them on Mason's legs, much to his surprise. Usually, these kinds of moods meant he had the pleasure of enduring all sorts of verbal and physical abuse at the hands of George, but if she wasn't even willing to throw a punch or slap him around a little, whatever was bothering her must have _really_ been bad. His joking grin that featured most prominently in their exchanges quickly transformed into a concerned frown. "George, what happened today?"

George's friendship with Mason was a strange one. Well, most people would have probably thought it to be normal – if not extraordinary – but she wasn't most people. It wasn't strange in a bad way, just in a…Different way. She wasn't used to having a friend who was so genuinely concerned with her well-being, and to be honest, it was something she tended to shy away from. Being a loner meant not having to deal with other people's shit, but it also meant having to deal with your own shit alone. But having Mason in her undead life made things easier, and she liked that.

She sat for a moment, trying to figure out how to put her thoughts to words. She could feel Mason's stare burning a hole through the side of her face, and it took all of her energy not to run away and tell him to fuck off.

"Do you ever miss your parents?" She asked finally, turning to face him. The question threw him off guard, and before he could reply, George spoke up again, as if to amend her question. "I just mean, I never appreciated mine while I was alive…I kind of hated them actually. But now that I'm gone, I just miss having that— sense of security. Having _them_. Who have to care about you no matter what, and who will always be there no matter how much you make it seem like you hate them. You know? I know, I'm crazy. Fuck it. I'm _tired_." She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "I'm so fucking tired, Mason."

Mason simply sat there, looking over at his closest friend. He didn't know what to say. A normal response to death, sure, but as we've already established, she wasn't normal. And after so long? It was bizarre, to say the least, and he was at a loss for words.

"Did you go home today?"

"No."

"Did something happen at your reap?" He asked, suspecting that maybe this outburst was rooted in something deeper than simple regret and nostalgia.

"Nothing happened. Nothing at all. I went to the fucking train station, and I took the fucking souls. I did what I was supposed to do, and what I've been forced to do for the past forever. I followed the rules, just like Rube always wants. Putting up a fight requires way too much energy."

"Very true." He thought for a moment before speaking up again. "You know, Georgie, that life is done with. There's no sense in making a shit time out of this life because we fucked up the last one. The way I see it, that gives us even more of a reason to make this one count, you know what I'm saying? Like, since we're given this chance, we sure as Hell better live it to its fullest. And fretting about the past certainly doesn't help ease things along, am I right?"

George looked over at him slowly, her eyes burning with tears and anger in her gaze.

"Fuck. Off." She bellowed from behind clenched teeth. "If I needed a fucking lecture, I'd go to Rube."

Not even the most heartfelt words of encouragement would help. Nothing would make her feel better right now, and he knew it. He could propose that they have an impromptu night on the town, and he could take her out and really make her feel alive – like she was still a part of this world, which she _was _– but he knew that wasn't what she wanted right now either.

All reapers had these moments, so it wasn't anything unique to George. Right now, all she wanted to do – all she had her mind set on – was wallowing in her own self pity. He knew how it was, he went through the same thing all the time. And whenever he was set on it, she was the one who bought tequila for them to drown their sorrows in. The least he could do was do the same. But something told him a bottle of tequila wouldn't make her feel any better tonight, either. The one thing she hated more than her troubles was running away from them.

Mason frowned exaggeratedly before shaking his head. "C'mere." He sat up half way and pulled her down onto the couch with him. He could feel her shoulders shaking with sobs and they lay there together, him holding her in his arms, and her crying on his chest. It broke his heart whenever she got like this. "You think too much, Georgie-girl."

He simply stayed there, holding her quietly for a while before deciding to speak up again. "Do you want to talk about whatever's really making you feel so shitty?"

Her head was still buried in his shirt as she shook her head; a clear no. With raised eyebrows, he nodded to himself and stroked her back soothingly.

"Alright then, I suppose." The minutes were adding up, and Mason surprisingly didn't mind. He liked feeling like Mason the Fuck-Up was capable of saving someone, rather than always been the one who needed saving. And he liked knowing that George didn't always have to take everything on herself. She needed someone around to be there for her, and he was willing to fill that role. Because, to be honest, who else did he have in this life?

He was getting lost in his thoughts and didn't notice when George's irregular breathing settled down and it was a surprise to him when she suddenly woke him from his reverie. "Why don't people like me, Mason?"

"Wh-what are you _talking_ about, Georgie? Why don't people—Okay, you clearly are not living in this world because that's just about the most ridiculous question I've ever heard in this life _and_ the last."

"Cut the bullshit," she said, still not willing to lift her head as she spoke. "Why don't I have any friends?"

"What am I then? Some random junkie you met through work? _I'm_ your bloody friend, George! Jesus Christ." He muttered, rolling his eyes and trying to fight the faint traces of hurt he was feeling.

"No, no, I mean—" As she started to speak, Mason stopped her abruptly and lifted her head from his chest. Her eyes were streaky and cheeks red.

"Ah, there we go. And you were saying, love?"

She sighed with frustration and rolled her eyes before resting her chin on her hands, which were sitting comfortably on his chest. He just stared up at her with a big, adoring, Mason smile.

"I don't mean you – you don't count. I mean why don't I have any _other _friends?"

"Oh, I don't count, do I? I see how it is, then."

"Yeah, you don't count." She growled, glaring at him with annoyance written all over her face.

"Darling, believe me when I say it's better that way." He started, getting back to her original question. "I mean, you can go out and do whatever you want, but it makes what we do so much easier if you just let that all…Go."

"That's easy for you to say, you have a ton of friends." She replied, averting his gaze.

"...Which is why I spend most evenings with you, of all people, here, of all places." She glared at him disdainfully, her eyes narrow and face scrunched up in that way that told everyone that someone just really pissed her off. Mason rolled his eyes and laughed to himself. He reached out and placed his hands on George's face. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding, there's no need to send me those daggers with your eyes. We're just two lost souls, Georgie-girl. Think of it this way: at least we have each other."

Mason generally tried not to think of George in the romantic sense, but as he sat there, her lying with him and his hands on her face, he found it harder and harder to fight the urge to just lean down and kiss her. Sure, he'd kissed her before, but she was so young then, and he had done it out of sheer brotherly love. Plus, there was the whole impending doom thing hanging over his head back then. Right now, though, was entirely different.

She was looking downward, thinking God-knows-what. Finally, she looked up and smiled sadly with a nod before letting her head rest on his chest once again. He laughed inwardly, secretly glad that she had inadvertently thwarted whatever rash, illogical plans he was formulating in his mind. He knew making any sort of move would be a mistake that would most likely result in him fucking this up and losing George as a friend – something he so desperately needed – for good. Every now and then, he had to fight off the urge, and he always did so pretty effectively.

He lifted his hands from her face, and rested them on her hair, stroking it slowly. His dick was _not_ going to get in the way of this friendship.

"Thank you, Mason."

_**TBC**_


	3. three

**3. **

It had been about a week since George had become quieter than usual, and although it hadn't quite reached the height it had the night of her little "breakdown," Mason could tell she still wasn't feeling herself. So needless to say, when he came into a little bit of good luck – he liked to call opportunities such as these benefits of the job – he naturally headed straight for Happy Time to pay their favorite employee, Millie, a visit.

He was sitting in her swivel chair, spying on the man in the cubicle across from her's, when he heard a familiar voice over his shoulder.

"Mason, what the fuck are you doing here!" George asked, shocked. "How many times have I told you that you can't just come down here?" Her reaction was like a recorded response: Mason knew exactly what to expect every time he paid her a surprise visit. And even though she played a convincing role, he knew how she really felt: she ate it up. She loved when he came by, if only because it mixed things up, something that rarely happened at Happy Time.

"Only once, if I recall correctly, but I'm still trying to change your mind about that. Something tells me that my dry British humor could really liven up the place."

"In case you didn't realize, I work here. Now, I know you've never had a job – well, a _real_ job at least – so understanding what it means to _work_ may be a foreign, scary idea to you, but let me put this in layman's terms: I have fucking work to do, so what do you want?"

"Funny you should ask," he said standing up so she could have her seat back, "I've actually come here with smashingly good news, darling." He leaned against her desk and grinned, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"You finally discovered the wonder that is personal hygiene?" She suggested, turning her attention toward the files she had piled on her desk.

"No, and I take offense to that."

"You finally discovered the wonder that is coin-operated Laundromats?"

"No, not that either, in fact."

"You finally discovered the wonder that is sobriety?"

"Nope, 'fraid that's not the ticket, nor will it ever be…Ooh! Speaking of tickets…" With that, Mason reached into his jacket and pulled out two tickets and dangled them in front of George's face. "I'll have you know that I came into a bit of good luck today, and _you_ get to share in the glory with me. Here, in my hands, I am holding two – count 'em, _two _– tickets to see—Oh, fuck if I know. To see a premiere, fucking fantastic rock group tonight – yes, _tonight_! – and I am inviting _you_ to join me. So, what do you say?"

George snapped her head up from her files and stared at him excitedly. "Concert? Hell yeah, I'm in!" She grabbed the tickets from Mason's hand and stared at them intently. "Hmm, haven't heard of them."

"It's alright, I'm sure they'll be bloody fantastic, just you wait." Mason replied, thrilled that she was thrilled.

"Yeah, and I mean, who the fuck cares anyway. We have two _free_ tickets."

"Yes, Georgie, we do." She glared at him conspicuously, and he covered his mouth immediately. "Millie. Yes, _Millie_, we do." Mason turned around to quickly scan the room, then looked back at George. "Alright then, the show starts at eight, so I'll swing by your place at seven and you can drive us over, yeah?"

"Sounds like a plan, Stan."

---

"Georgie, please tell me that is _not _what today's youth calls rock and roll. For the love of all things good and pure in this world, _please_." Mason jumped out of the car, groaning as he walked over to the edge of the hill that overlooked the city, and collapsed onto the ground.

"That is not what today's youth calls rock and roll. There, are you happy now?" George asked, taking a seat on the grass beside him.

"Are you humoring me?" He asked, staring up at George pathetically. She looked down at him, thinking hard.

"Yes. Yes, I am." She said finally as she reached out and patted his stomach, causing him to "oof" in surprise.

"See, that's why the sixties were an amazing time, man. None of this sugar-coated, wah wah wah bullshit. Cry me a fucking river, wanker! Back then it was pure, unadulterated, gloriously visceral rock and roll music."

"Sex, drugs, and rock and roll?" She asked, raising an eyebrow as she stared out over the twinkling lights of the city.

"Yeah, man! Sex, drugs and rock and roll! Live fast, die young. None of this 'let us get in touch with our emotions and express how we _feel _about things' bullshit. There wouldn't be any eleven minute long contemplation of death set to acoustic guitar – which, by the way, should be fucking outlawed; electric or nothing – back in the day. Then, he would have just fucking killed himself and gotten over it already, yeah?"

George stared down at Mason skeptically.

"God, I miss the sixties," he sighed wistfully, wiping a fake tear from his cheek.

"I don't know. I mean, they weren't amazing, but I didn't think they were that bad either." She chimed in.

"Of course you did. You're one of _them_!"

"Hey, hey, hey. I am _not _one of them. I just appreciate the effort and am not as willing to completely trash them just because I couldn't understand the words they used in their songs." With that, she glared suspiciously down at Mason.

"You can't tell me you know what paronomasia fucking means." He taunted. George's mouth was open and her finger pointed at him, about to shoot out the definition when he cut her off abruptly. "If you say you do, you're bloodly lying. And there's no fucking way that hall full of pre-pubescent girlies knew either. Which is another thing! I swear I did not see one hot babe, if you will, the whole time we were there. Aside from you of course, Georgie-girl."

"Nice save."

"Why thank you."

"Well, I don't care what you say, I still had a good time. So thank you, Mason, for giving me your second ticket."

"No problem, Georgie, I just wish this show had been memorable, you know? Like the shows I used to go to. Man, they were _life-changing_, those were." He reached out, stretching his arms before folding them under his head.

"How many shows do you think you've been to in your life, Mason? Afterlife included." He thought for a moment, then shook his head with a huge grin.

"More than I can remember, that's for sure. And I can guarantee you that each and every one of them was better than the one we went to tonight." George rolled her eyes before laying down beside Mason. He had started rambling on about the first time he saw the Who live, and she had turned her brain on autopilot, nodding and mhm-ing every so often so that it wasn't too painfully obvious that she wasn't paying any attention at all. She stared up at the stars for a few moments before scooting in closer to him and using his side as a makeshift pillow. She stared out across the town, getting lost in her own thoughts, and he immediately brought his arm out from behind his head and placed it securely around her without thinking twice. She sighed imperceptively and let her eyes close for a moment. Feeling his presence – anyone's presence for that matter, but he always seemed to be the one who was there – was comforting. She quickly learned after Daisy's departure that being alone grew tiresome, but she was lucky to always have Mason around, her strange cross between brother, best friend, and dare she even say, boyfriend? Thinking of him in those terms always unsettled her, but moments like these seemed to push the boundaries of a simple brother-sister friendship.

"George. Geeeooorge. Have you been listening to a single word I've said?" Mason asked, nudging her with the arm he had wrapped around her waist.

She shook her head, as if waking herself up from a daydream, then sat there silently for a few moments.

"Um, hello? Anyone home?" Mason called out jokingly, nudging her again.

She stared out at the grass, then finally turned her gaze out toward the city and spoke up.

"Reggie's graduation is tomorrow. I want to go."

Mason sighed and leaned his head close to hers, lowering his voice an octave as he did so. "You know as well as I that that's a horrible idea, and that there's no chance Rube would ever allow it to happen."

"Rube won't know." She said simply, her eyes still fixed on the twinkling lights before her.

"Rube knows everything. He has his ways of finding out."

"You're gonna tell him?" It wasn't a question so much as a declaration, and Mason just rolled his eyes.

"Of course I won't fucking tell Rube. What do I look like, a bloody snitch?" He shook his head, appalled at the sheer notion. He clearly rested more faith in their friendship than George did. "If you already have your heart set on it, then there's no way you'd possibly change your mind. Is your heart set on it?" He looked down at her, and she had that sad, distant look on her face that he used to notice a lot more frequently when she first arrived on the scene, before she got the hang of things.

She nodded her head slowly and replied, "yes."

"Alright, then what do I have to do with this?"

"I want you to come with me." 

He smiled to himself, and paused for a moment before continuing. "What? Why? So that Rube can eat both our asses for breakfast, lunch, _and _dinner for the next twenty years, is that it?"

"No, dumbass." She rolled her eyes with frustration, and punched him in the gut, "I want you to come with me because I don't want to fucking go alone. Jesus."

She didn't really know why she wanted Mason, of all people, to go there with her, but it seemed to make the most sense. Despite the fact that he was probably the worst liar she had ever come across, she was fairly certain he was also her closest friend. If she couldn't go alone, she knew he was the one she should go to.

"I'm just messing with you. Of course I'll come, Georgie."

"Thanks, I really appreciate having to deal with your bullshit when I'm clearly being dead serious." Mason laughed to himself at her typically George-ian response.

"You're quite welcome, my dear." He said, looking back up at the stars, rubbing her back affectionately. She simply sighed and closed her eyes, her lips set in a resolute frown. Neither spoke a word for a solid five minutes, and it unsurprisingly was Mason who broke the silence first.

"If you don't mind me asking, is this why you've been acting a bit strange lately?" His brow was furrowed in concern as he stared out into space, his hand still running soothing strokes over her back.

George opened her eyes slowly, allowing silence to settle between them before answering. "I don't know."

Mason nodded his head knowingly, convinced that it _was_ in fact, what had been bothering her the past few days.

"You know…I know it's easy to find it upsetting that our loved ones go on with their lives. That they can grow up and experience things that we never got the chance to while we're stuck here, fucking reaping. But maybe you should just think of it as—"

"Mason." Her voice was tired, and lacking the usual angry intonation he'd come to love so much. "I wasn't lying, I really don't know. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I just…don't know."

He looked down at her, his eyes lingering over the top of her head. "Alright then."

_**TBC** _


	4. four

**4.**

"Is it just me or are kids these days getting younger and younger?" Mason asked, genuinely curious as they made their way to the front of the crowd that was gathered on either side of the center aisle. It was a perfect day; sunny, not a cloud in the sky, and the two of them had just successfully crashed one of the most prestigious private schools in the area's commencement ceremonies, otherwise known as graduation.

"Tell me about it." George replied, pulling her sunglasses on both to shield her eyes and to give herself an added disguise.

"Ooh ooh! Look at that one!" Mason excitedly nudged her side and pointed mockingly at one of the kids walking down the aisle in his graduation cap and gown. "Doesn't look a day older than eleven. Am I right or am I right?"

George laughed and leaned in towards Mason, "cruel, but so fucking true."

"So, how are we supposed to know when to expect—"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up." She flailed her arms, hushing him as she ducked behind his back. She put her hands on Mason's shoulders, and peeked out from behind his arm, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible. That is, as inconspicuous as a dead girl who was conspicuously stalking her little sister could be. "That's her," she breathed, as she stared at the young girl – _woman_, actually – walking down the aisle. Mason looked at her, then at George for a prolonged moment. He smiled, looked down at the ground, then back at the students passing by.

"She's beautiful." He said genuinely, watching her as she made her way towards the seats allotted for the graduates.

"Yeah, she is," George replied with a grin. Reggie wasn't the same Reggie George had always known. This Reggie was tall, slender, and all smiles; a welcome change from the generally morbid demeanor she possessed shortly following her older sister's death. Her hair was relatively long; flowing and wavy. The look suited her, and George couldn't have been more proud of her baby sister than she was at that precise moment. She wasn't generally the sentimental type, but she couldn't help it. "Just look at her."

"Lovely, really." Mason commented as he nudged George back and out of the crowd so other eager relatives could mill about and cheer their children and siblings on as well.

"You know, I really should have enjoyed my graduation more than I did." She commented as they made their way towards the back of the lawn and took a seat underneath a big oak tree. "I was always felt the need to be so fucking nonconformist, I missed my life as it passed me by."

"Hey, nonconformity is a beautiful thing. Fight the man, man!" Mason shook his fists vigorously in the air, sporting his typical punk rock pose. Suddenly he stopped, and looked to his wrist, expecting to find a watch there, but instead finding nothing – not much of a surprise considering he had never owned one. "Bullocks, what time is it, Georgie?"

"11:22, why do you ask?" George replied, briefly looking down at her watch, then fixing her attention back to Reggie in her cap and gown.

"Didn't you say your reap was at 11:30?"

"Fuck!" She anxiously pulled out her Post-It, glanced at it, then jumped up and bolted away.

"Don't worry, darling, I'll save your seat!" He called out in her direction, and she waved in thanks as she sprinted off. "Hold down the fort, if you will." His eyes scanned over the group of elderly folk gathered close to their tree, then narrowed. "Oy, watch it granpappy, this area is reserved so piss off!"

---

George was out of breath when she finally met up with Rube outside a liquor store on 58th. He eyed her suspiciously, then motioned toward the store with a nod.

She rushed in, scanned the scene, then noticed a suspect looking man lurking around the front. Quickly, she grabbed a bottle of whatever was closest, and headed straight to the cashier; an older man wearing a blue shirt with the name "Lester" stitched into the front. She pulled out her Post-It once more.

_L. Davies  
23 58th Street  
ETD: 11:31 AM_

She stuffed the Post-It back in her pocket and placed the bottle of vodka on the counter with a smile. He eyed her strangely, then punched some numbers in the cash register.

"Hiya, _Lester_. Wait, wait, let me guess, I'm good at this…Frank? Lester Frank? I know, I know, its uncanny, right?"

"Davies." He said simply, still staring at her out of the corner of his eye. "That'll be $30.52."

_Fuck me! _George screamed inwardly, her eyes bulging as she stared at the number on the register. She laughed nervously then handed him the money, swiping his soul while she was at it. He continued to stare at her strangely as he placed the money in the drawer, making her feel uncomfortable under his gaze. _He knows. There's no other explanation. _

As she took the bag and started to head out, he called out to her. "For future reference, little lady, I don't generally tolerate underaged kids coming into my store, but seeing as you had the balls to come down and get_ that_ before noon even, I figured I'd let you get away with it. But don't you think of coming back round here again. Consider yourself warned…And being extra chatty only draws more attention to yourself."

George stared at him quizzically for a few seconds before it dawned on her. After all this time, she forgot. She may have felt like she was seven years older than she was then, but she still didn't look a day older than eighteen thanks to the joys of being undead. She smiled politely at him, nodded, then bolted out of the store.

As she made her way out, Rube stopped her, also glaring strangely at her. _Seriously now, do I have something on my face or what?_

"What?" She asked, stopping in front of him. He motioned to the bag with a questioning glance. "I should have just gotten a fuckin' candy bar. Thirty bucks, man._ Thirty bucks_!" Rube continued to stare at her with an odd expression on his face. "What, what, _what_! Do I have food on my face or something? Why are you staring at me like I'm fucking ET?"

"What's with the duds, Peanut? I thought you had work today." The sound of two gunshots, almost simultaneous, echoed through the air, and the souls of the liquor store owner and the suspect looking man who was lurking in the front walked out.

"Now how fuckin' pointless was that? You couldn't have just hesitated for a split second longer before whippin' it out?"

George turned her attention back to Rube from the two souls they had just reaped. As they started heading down the street, she frantically tried to come up with some sort of excuse for wearing a completely different outfit from what she had been in first thing this morning at Der Waffle Haus, when she specifically told him she had to head out to work otherwise Delores would flip out for yet another late morning.

"Well, you know Rube, that's a good question, and quite perceptive of you, actually! I _did_ – I mean, _do_ – have work today, but it turned out that it was actually casual Friday, and I forgot, and Delores let me run home to change." She straightened out her posture, proud that she was able to come up with such a fantastic lie off the cuff. Something told her if she told Rube the real reason she wasn't dressed for work was because she had told Delores she had a relapse and _desperately_ needed a day off, then proceeded to crash her little sister's graduation – one of the biggest reaper no-no's in the book – he wouldn't exactly jump for joy.

Rube continued to stare at her strangely, and she knew he wasn't buying her, as Roxy would say, "freeze dried bullshit" for a second.

"I see. And the late entrance? That's not like you, Peanut. Something I've come to expect from Mason, but definitely not you."

"I guess he's rubbing off on me," she said distantly, not taking the time to consider how true that statement may have been.

"Not the answer I wanted to hear." Rube deadpanned, staring at her seriously.

"Hey, I'm sorry to cut this short Rube, but I told Delores that I was heading home to change – which I _did_, as you so aptly noticed – and if I don't get right back, she'll call the police, then local hospitals…You know how employers get. So yeah, if you could take my dude's soul, show him to the light and what not, that would be fantastic. Thanks, Rube! Bye!" She bolted off before he could even get a chance to speak. She knew full-well she'd have a lot of explaining to do come dinner time, but that was a good seven or eight hours away, which gave her _plenty _of time to come up with a convincing back story.

---

When she finally made it back to the school, Mason was sitting at the base of the tree, dabbing his eyes with his sweatshirt.

"Mason? Are you _crying_?" His head immediately snapped up, and it took all her energy to stifle the mocking laughter that so desperately wanted to escape from her mouth.

"No. Yes. No…Bullocks. So the fuck what? Maybe I am, alright? Maybe I fuckin' am! Little Joanie just overcame so many obstacles to get here, and now look at her! Now she's vale-fuckin'-dictorian of her class. If you heard her speech, you'd be fucking bawling your eyes out too, so leave me the fuck alone!" She continued to hold back the laughter as she plopped down beside him.

"It's an art really; how many fucks you can fit into a sentence never ceases to amaze. Now that speech must've been pretty powerful seeing as they've already gotten a quarter of the way through handing out the diplomas and you're still sniffling over here."

"Thank you, and yes, it bloody was."

Just as George was rolling her eyes, she heard the name. Regina Josephine Lass. Suddenly, it was like everything was happening in slow motion. She stood up and watched as her little sister walked across the stage, shook the dean's hand, raised her diploma in the air, and waved it to the crowd. Her parents were standing and cheering; they were happy. So happy.

She could have sworn that Reggie looked at her and smiled, but George knew that was a ridiculous thought. It had been a long time since the sisters had shared a moment like the one by George's grave the day after Halloween more than five years ago. Despite her better judgment, she liked to believe that Reggie knew she was there keeping an eye out on her. She sat back down slowly, dazed, with a hint of a smile plastered on her face. She was proud of her. George was proud of Reggie, and she liked the feeling. She liked seeing her sister grow and change and move on with her life; it somehow made her feel more alive. She looked at the ground, then up at Mason. He smiled widely back at her, then motioned for the two of them to get up and out.

"Whaddya say we head out for a celebratory lunch?"

"The day is young, and so are we. Well, kind of…" She responded, almost happily.

"Is that a yes or a no?" Mason asked, clearly baffled.

"It's a yes. Definitely a yes. And since you were so clever as to think of it, lunch is on you."

"Oh lovely." He replied sarcastically, lifting his arm over her, then resting it across her shoulders. "Glad to see you're back to your normal self, Georgie-girl." He rubbed her arm affectionately, and she just smiled.

---

"Do you ever wish you went to college, Mason?" George asked before taking a bite out of her burger. After arguing for nearly half an hour about where they should have lunch, they ended up sticking with their tried and true home away from home: Der Waffle Haus.

"Oh bloody Hell, no." He responded in a heartbeat as he reached across the table to swipe a few fries from her plate.

"Really?" She asked, surprised – but at the same time not – by the quickness of his response. "Not even the slightest bit?"

With that, Mason stopped in mid-chew and looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. "Well, if I were to go, it probably would have been for my mum, not for all that higher education, get a degree and steady job bullshit."

"I wish I stayed in." She contemplated wistfully, "I mean, if I had, I probably wouldn't be here."

"Or you would. You know what Rube says: if you have an appointment, you have an appointment. You can't think about what ifs and I wish I dids."

"True." George nodded, pointing a fry in his direction. "Like, what if I hadn't…" Suddenly, Rube walked through the doors, startling her out of her reverie. Quickly, she leaned over the table, and grabbed Mason. "…Lied to Rube. FUCK! What do I tell Rube!"

"Um, that you went to your sister's graduation ceremony?" Mason suggested, shrugging with a confused expression on his face before, looking over her shoulder and raising his hand to wave at Rube, who was now hovering over the two of them.

"I'm going to pretend that I didn't just hear what I just heard."

"What you just heard?" Mason laughed nervously, fumbling for words as George simply glared at him angrily. "What you just _heard_? Rubey, old chap, I had no idea you took such offense to two people…Bowling."

She sighed exasperatedly and slammed her forehead on the table. Why was bowling the only thing he could _ever_ come up with? She really should have known better.

"You know you can't be pulling that shit, Peanut." Rube said, taking a seat next to George in the booth. "I could care less about you ditching Happy Time, but going to your sister's graduation? As lovely as that sounds, you know more than I how incredibly wrong and inappropriate something like that is."

George rolled her eyes at Mason, and he mimed being hung, all while Rube was intently discussing the various reasons why interacting with relatives was completely and utterly verboten. Finally, Rube looked up, catching Mason in mid-mime. He glared at his British booth-mate, not amused in the least. Mason simply laughed nervously.

"My sincerest apologies, Rube. Please, by all means, continue with the verbal lashing."

_**TBC**_


	5. five

**5.**

It had been a fairly typical day for Mason when he realized he was in love with George. Strange? Maybe. Impossible? Not at all.

---

The day began in his place. The obnoxious alarm on his bedside clock was going off, and he angrily shoved it over the edge, onto the floor. He groaned as he rolled over, then grumbled to himself and clutched his head as he sat up, kicking his covers off. His head was pounding, and he cursed the fact that the undead had to endure the joys of hangovers, just like everyone else. You would think that their undead metabolism would take care of those kinds of things.

After exhausting his vast vocabulary of expletives and popping more than a few painkillers, his mind wandered to her. He wondered why she wasn't home at 10:52 PM the night before. He wondered why he didn't just pick the lock, like he usually did, and watch some television until she came back. He wondered if she was out celebrating the end to her reaper-depression…Without him. Which led him to then wonder _what_ exactly she was out doing and with whom. But most importantly, he wondered why he didn't crash on her couch, because if he had, he wouldn't have woken up with this fucking hangover and he would have had some company heading over to Der Waffle Haus.

And then he picked up some laundry from the floor, hopped in the shower, and headed out the door. Another day, another reap. So it goes.

---

When he walked through the doors of Der Waffle Haus, the first thing he noticed was no George. He would have been worried, but both of them were notorious for their tardiness. If it wasn't one, it was the other.

"Hi all," Mason said noncommittally as he scooted into the booth beside Roxy. He furrowed his brow and looked up at Rube, who was busy with the crossword. "Where's George?"

"How should I know? You know that girl marches to the beat of her own drum." Rube replied, not looking up.

_Of course. That's what makes Georgie-girl Georgie-girl_, Mason thought proudly.

"She's never on time." Roxy was in a particularly calm mood to Mason's relief; he wasn't up for getting chewed up and spit out this early in the morning.

"Ah well then, guess we'll just have to order without her." Just as Mason picked up his menu, the girl of the hour burst through the door.

"RUBE! Mark my words I will _never_ forgive you for this." She marched over to the booth, glared at Rube and the empty spot next to him, then squeezed in next to Mason, much to Roxy's discomfort.

"If you didn't notice, two people are sitting here already. Go sit on the other motherfucking side!"

Mason couldn't suppress his grin as he sat sandwiched between Roxy and George, anger emanating from both. _This_ was the George he knew and loved.

"Good morning to you, too, Georgie," he said with a smirk as he slung his arm around her shoulders. George's eyes narrowed and she stared at him disdainfully before knocking his arm away.

"I am _not_ in the mood, Mason," she said tersely before turning her attention back to Rube, commencing to chew him the fuck out.

It was almost criminal, how much Mason was enjoying the scene playing out before him. There was nothing like an angry tirade first thing in a morning to make a man's day. The sun was certainly shining down on them all.

"—AT THREE FUCKING AM."

"Shit, did you just say you had a reap at 3 AM?" Mason asked as he perused the menu.

"Why yes, yes I did Mason. And if you didn't catch the time just now, it's oh, SEVEN FIFTEEN. _IN THE MORNING_." She threw her arms up in angry exhaustion. "Some people have _no_ respect for recovering insomniacs trying to develop normal sleeping patterns."

"Death waits for no one, Peanut." Rube monotoned as he tucked his crossword into the pocket inside his jacket and brought out his planner. "To compensate, you'll get your evening off tonight." He pulled off a Post-It and stuck it on the table in front of George, then proceeded to do the same for Mason and Roxy. "Now if you'd excuse me, I've got places to go, souls to reap. We'll continue this later." He gave her a knowing glance before turning and leaving.

Mason looked on in amusement as George sighed exasperatedly and threw her hands up once more. "What a douche," she muttered to herself. Just as Mason was about to retort something snarky back to her, he felt a strong push from his side, and suddenly him and George were sliding out of the booth and onto the floor.

"I'm leaving," Roxy said, standing up annoyed.

"FUCK! MY LEGS!" George shouted, pushing Mason's sprawled form away from her.

"Bloody fuckin' Hell, Roxy! You could have just asked us to get up." He whined, standing and brushing himself off. By the time he looked up, Roxy was already gone. Mason gave an 'oh well' shrug of his shoulders, and took a seat opposite George.

"How bout we get ourselves some breakfast, shall we?" He suggested, opening up the menu once more.

"Yeah, sur—Oh shit, my reap's in fifteen minutes! I'm gonna be late for work!" And with that, George ran out.

"Well then, eating alone builds character, I suppose." Mason muttered to himself. "Kiffany, darling! Waffles and eggs, please."

---

_D. Fellerman  
543 45th Street  
ETD: 6:43 PM_

Mason looked down at his Post-It, then up at the pizza delivery man in front of him. He crumpled up the little yellow square, tossed it in the trash, and walked toward the man who just happened to be sporting a red puffy jacket with a dirty, plastic name tag safety pinned to the front: _Danny Fellerman_.

"Oy, that my pizza?" Mason called out, digging in his pocket for some money.

"You John Stevens?" He asked, as he opened the heat-sealed carrying case and pulled out a large pizza.

"Sure, why not. How much?" Food was certainly a plus; funny how things always worked out perfectly. And maybe, just maybe, if Mason was feeling extra generous, he could stop by George's place and see if she was up for some dinner. It sounded like a right fine plan to him. Certainly better than eating yet another meal alone.

"Ten bucks even." Mason handed the guy twelve dollars, took the pizza, and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, both expressing his thanks and taking his soul in one fell swoop.

"Cheers, mate." As Danny Fellerman got back on his bike, Mason started to head down the street only to stop after about a minute when he heard a loud crash and people screaming and running. He turned around and saw Danny's body and bike strewn across the pavement like children's toys in a playpen. And on top of it all, the car that had just hit them was now speeding away. Mason shook his head in disgust.

"Motherfucker." He turned to his right to see Danny Fellerman standing beside him, looking angrily at the car. "Mark my words, he'll fucking pay. Karma's a bitch."

"That is so very true." Mason replied, nodding before patting Danny on the back encouragingly.

"So, are you my guardian angel or something?" Fellerman asked as they made their way down the street. Mason laughed at the thought, and looked at the man's soul jokingly.

"Far from it, mate. I'm Mason. I took your soul from your body before the accident." He motioned to the scene behind them, and then looked down at his shoes anxiously.

"So I take it that pizza wasn't really yours, Mason."

"Well, it bloody is now." He laughed, and Danny just shook his head with a smile.

"So what now?" Danny asked, his voice both fearful and excited.

As Mason accompanied Danny to the light – a pasture with a farmhouse in the distance – he heard someone call out, "Shit, that was my pizza guy! I better get a fucking refund, man." Mason rolled his eyes, but couldn't stifle the sly smile that crept across his lips.

_Now off to Georgie-girl's._

---

"…I mean, I could have waited 'til after he died to swipe the pizza, but then I ran the risk of blood or body parts or even worse _insides_ ending up in it. So yeah, it sucks that I had to pay ten bucks, but I figure it was worth it." Mason took a big bite of his slice of pizza, then leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table and one arm on the back of the couch, behind George.

"Smart move," she said, digging in. "Thanks, Mason. I was thinking of doing Der Waffle Haus tonight, but I'm not gonna lie, it's starting to be overkill."

Mason scoffed at her, and then started to talk, his mouth full of pizza. "Well imagine 40 years of it."

George turned to him, a frightened expression on her face. "You're such an old man!" She pushed him in the gut, and he laughed for a moment before becoming serious.

"Now I'm warning you, Georgie. That's a dangerous game you're playing, yeah. I could very well puke all over that lovely little pajama ensemble you have going on there because I really don't think large quantities of hard liquor and mozzarella cheese are meant to be consumed together." George looked disgusted and shuddered. "By the way, why _are _you in your pajamas already? You realize it's only 8:30 on a Wednesday night, right? The night is still young. In fact, that's an understatement. The night is still in its early stages of infancy for Christ sake."

"Are you trying to tell me that I should go out and be young and reckless?" She asked, sinking lower into the couch so that she was talking to Mason's arm rather than his face.

"Yes!" He exclaimed excitedly, "that's _exactly_ what I'm trying to tell you!"

"You forget, one can't really go be young and reckless all by themselves. Then it's just sad and pathetic."

"Georgie. _You_ forget that you just happen to be sitting right beside the reigning _king_ of young and reckless. All you have to do is say the word and we're there in a flash, ready to behave terribly and make regrettable decisions. Whaddya say?"

"As appealing as that sounds," there was surprisingly no hint of sarcasm in her voice there. No matter how hard George tried to stay out of the mainstream and be her own woman, with each passing day she wanted nothing more than to fit in and be one of the "crowd." But whether she'd actually act on that desire was another issue entirely. "I have to admit that's not really my thing."

"How would you know," he asked, turning his head towards her and resting it on his shoulder, "if you've never tried."

"I _have_ tried, thank you very much, and I just know." She offered her uneaten crust to him and he quickly accepted it with a huge grin.

"Okay, but _how_ do you know?" He asked again, his mouth full of pizza crust.

"Just do." George sat up straight and was looking intently at the remote on the coffee stand. She rested her right arm on Mason, effectively pinning him to the couch, and eliciting a long string of colorful obscenities that she proceeded to pay no attention to. She leaned both of her legs over Mason's, grabbed the remote with her feet, then flicked it up towards the couch and caught it.

"With skills like that, who needs friends?" She joked with a smile – something she seemed to be doing a lot more these days. Mason liked her smile. It was warm and carefree, and a refreshing change from the bitter, angry expression she'd perfected over the years.

He laughed and smiled genuinely back at her. He didn't know what it was about her that made him so happy and strangely at peace. "With skills like that, why aren't you in the circus?" He joked, reverting back to his normal, sarcastic self. She let out a fake, loud, obnoxious laugh before punching Mason in the stomach. Within seconds her legs were back in their previous position – crossed on top of the table, and her head inches from his upper arm.

"I gotta say, _this_ is more my thing." She picked up the remote and started flipping through channels aimlessly.

Mason rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Well then, we're going out tomorrow night because spending the evening in front of the telly on a Thursday is forgivable, but on a Friday night? Well that's just blasphemous."

"Yeah, whatever," she said, clearly paying more attention to the channels she was surfing through than what he was saying. Finally, she settled on Nick at Nite, as always, and tossed the remote to the side.

"Oh no, no, no. I simply _cannot_ have this. We are not watching Nick at Nite _again_. If I have to see any more of those bloody Olsen twins, I'll kill myself…Again." He reached across George and grabbed the remote. "I would rather watch bison grazing on that Animal Planet channel you have than those fucking twins saying atrociously cute things, and that stupid uncle who loves his hair."

"As you wish, Mason. Because it's not like this is my place or anything."

"Oh come on. You can't tell me you _want_ to watch that bullshit. I find that _very_ hard to believe, Georgie. Especially considering the fact that you eat little girls like that for breakfast."

"Hey! Are you trying to say I'm an angry person?" She asked, sitting straight up, suddenly defensive.

Mason laughed loud.

"How about we watch a movie, yeah?" He asked, changing the subject before she could attack again. He jumped up quickly to check out her DVD selection.

"Nah, I'm not feeling very movie-going. Two hours is too much of a commitment. I don't like it when those kinds of restrictions are placed on my life, ya know?"

"The fucking man, always trying to impose his tyrannical rule on our lives." Mason bellowed, pumping his fist in the air. "Now that's what I'm fucking talking about!"

"Yeah!" George said facetiously enthusiastic, before plopping back down and speaking in her normal, low key voice. "Lets just channel surf or something."

"Fine," he groaned, jumping back onto the couch. They sat there for a solid five minutes in silence, simply watching as channels passed, but nothing even remotely good seemed to be on. Finally, Mason spoke up. "You know, we could always watch Jerry Springer and play that drinking game where you take a shot every time someone says 'fuck'."

"Um thanks, Mason, but no thanks."

---

It was nearing midnight, and George had fallen asleep on Mason's shoulder watching _The Godfather_. True, she didn't want to commit herself to a movie, but it was the only thing that they both could even slightly agree on.

"Fucking brilliant," Mason said to himself, staring at the credits. "Every time, just fucking brilliant. Don't you agree Geor—" He looked down and realized she was long gone. He could feel the steady warmth of her breath on his arm, and he smiled affectionately. He didn't know exactly when things between him and George became this comfortable; it was just a gradual progression, he supposed.

After Daisy left, it was just them and Rube and Roxy. So really, it was just them. It was a hard time for him, and he was surprised that she cared enough to step up and be there. Instead of turning (primarily) to booze and drugs, he had her. Someone he could talk to, and someone who could help him fight his own demons – or in some instances, fight his demons for him. Mason was weak and confused; always was and always would be. He didn't know what to do. He was scared. But George? She was fearless. She was his support. She dealt the blows when he needed a kick in the pants, and she gave him strength when he needed it. Sure, he had been there for her countless times over the past seven years, too, but he couldn't help but feel like he was getting more out of this friendship than she was. Because honestly, what could Mason offer? Slurred words and a sloppy, drunken hug? He couldn't save her. And no matter how much he wanted to, he was pretty sure she didn't want to be saved by anyone. She was going to save herself, and he just desperately hoped she'd take him with her.

_...And she would, right? _

As he stared down at her peaceful, sleeping form, it just clicked. George wasn't just another reaper Mason worked with; he cared about her. A lot. And he worried about her. And he thought about her constantly. Her scowl made him smile. Her smile made him smile. Her _presence _made him smile. She made him feel safe. She made him feel permanent.

He didn't just love George like a best mate; he _loved _her loved her. And it fucking scared him.

Mason stood up and stared at her incredulously. He rubbed his eyes, which were wide in disbelief, then let his hands drop to cover his open mouth. This couldn't be right. He couldn't be in love with anyone. Fuck, he didn't even know what love _was_. For all he knew what he was feeling could have been anything. All he could be sure of was what his gut told him. And his gut was telling him that he was in love with George Lass.

He shook his head, still surprised at the workings of his own mind. He had to get out of here. But he couldn't just leave George asleep on the couch; she'd kill him for not waking her up if she woke up the next morning with a stiff neck.

But she looked so peaceful.

Mason smiled and laughed quietly to himself. _What have I gotten myself fucking into?_

He reached down, scooped George up in his arms, and carried her to her room. He laid her down in her bed, placed her covers over her, and then quietly made his way out of the house.

---

And that was how it happened. That was how he, Mason, realized he was in love with George – Georgie; his Georgie-girl – as T.S. Eliot profoundly wrote: not with a bang, but a whimper.

_**TBC**_


	6. six

**6.**

It had been nearly a week since what he affectionately termed "That Fateful Night," and although Mason had no fucking clue what he should do or if he should do anything to begin with, he was sure of one thing: George was to be avoided at all costs. He needed time to sit on this. To digest. To understand the situation completely and figure out where he was going go from there. All things that were not very Mason at all. In fact, Mason hadn't felt very Mason for quite some time now. Which, to him, only seemed to make his decision to steer clear of the girl responsible even more justified.

He actually surprised himself with what good of a job he did at first. They crossed paths every now and again – understandably – at Der Waffle Haus, of course. And of course, he made idle chit chat, trying to make it seem as though nothing were up; there was no need for her to get suspicious. But at the same time, when ever he saw an opportunity to get the fuck out, he sure as Hell grabbed it and ran. And even though George always looked somewhat baffled, he kept telling himself that he just wanted his space. He wasn't being a jerk, he just wanted his space! Because maybe space was all he needed to make these…_feelings_…go away.

Although his plan went off without a hitch for the first few days, he couldn't say the same as the week progressed. Considering this dramatic decision and the fact that, quite frankly, he didn't possess anything near Marlon Brando's acting prowess, it goes without saying that Mason couldn't help but behave differently around George. After his small talk had degraded into nervous bumbling, he realized that maybe speaking wasn't exactly the best way around this sensitive situation. In fact, maybe the silent treatment was the best approach after all. She would probably bite his head off down the line, but it needed to be done. Because to be quite frank, every time he spoke, he lost more and more control of what was coming out of his mouth, and before he knew it, he could very well blow everything. And that _could not _happen.

Given the circumstances, and considering Mason's lack of stealth and finesse, it didn't take very long for George to notice the drastic change in his demeanor and for her to initiate her own sort of retaliation. In fact, he started to notice her taking on a bit of an icy air around the fourth day, perhaps reciprocating the seemingly cold shoulder he was giving her. And by the fifth day, he could have sworn he felt those daggers of hers being launched from her eyes straight at him. And that was when he realized, maybe all out avoidance was the only way for them to get over this little rough patch.

It was 8 AM on Wednesday morning when Mason rolled out of bed, surprisingly sober and alert. He trifled through the rumpled mess of dirty laundry on the floor, trying to find something to wear. It had been two days since he'd been to Der Waffle Haus, and he knew there was absolutely no way around it today: he had to go. Which also meant that he had to see _her_. He groaned to himself and mumbled incoherencies as he kept fishing through the pile for a T-shirt that, at the very least, didn't have any ketchup stains on it.

"Bloody Wednesdays," he said to himself, clearly feeling particularly grumpy, "I fucking hate them." He snatched up a ratty old pair of jeans and a plain green T-shirt with only two holes – stellar, considering whose wardrobe it was – and dragged himself into the bathroom.

---

"Look who decided to actually show up today," Rube called out as Mason made his way to the booth. Roxy and George looked up in surprise as he approached and reluctantly took the seat next to Roxy, directly across from George. He simply mumbled a tired "ha ha" before snatching up the Post-It Rube stuck to the table in front of him. He scratched his head nervously, and looked over at Roxy, then out toward Kiffany, keeping his eyes anywhere but ahead of him.

Rube and Roxy exchanged words, but Mason paid no attention and was startled out of his daze as Roxy nudged him out of the seat. After her and their fearless leader made their way out of the building Mason took a seat back down across from George, who was slowly – and contemptibly – chewing the last bite of her waffle. She simply stared at him coldly, her head tilted to one side and her jaw slightly agape. Mason just rolled his eyes and shook his head, the slightest trace of a bitter grin on his face. They were clearly both pissed off; the reason for their hostilities unbeknownst to each other. He scratched his head once more, and nervously looked around the place again. Even though his mind was screaming not to, he let his eyes settle on her cold ones and in an instant, his line of defense was breached. He opened his mouth, ready to speak, and her eyebrows rose in intrigue, her gaze becoming indifferent rather than seething. He thought twice, then closed his mouth abruptly and looked back down at his Post-It.

"Where the fuck have _you_ been the past two days?" She asked, her tone surprisingly flat, as she placed her fork back down on her plate.

"I—" his mind raced, and he finally sighed, stuffing the yellow paper into his pocket, "I better head off. My reap's in twenty minutes and it's all the way across town. Sorry, Georgie." He ducked his head, almost frightened to look at her again. Her eyes narrowed angrily, and she laughed bitterly to herself. As he was walking out, he heard her call out to him.

"Typical."

_This lovely day only seems to be getting lovelier_, he thought as he shook his head sadly and pushed the door open.

---

The next morning, determined to start the new day off on the right foot, Mason made a point to be the first to arrive and the first to order breakfast. By the time he finished up his side of hash browns, Rube and Roxy had joined him, but George was still glaringly absent.

"What is it with you two? Can't you both ever be on time? If one of you's here, then the other's not. Fucking ridiculous." Roxy muttered to herself as she glanced at her Post-It then proceeded to eat her fruit salad.

"It's an art form, really." Mason commented distractedly, his mind wondering to George, and whether she was really as mad at him as he expected or if maybe things weren't as bad as he thought they were.

"If she doesn't show—" Before Rube could get his sentence out, George burst through the door and charged straight for the booth, her arm outstretched, waiting for her daily Post-It.

"Morning to you, too, Peanut." Rube replied as he placed the Post-It in her hand. George smiled at him, excessively sarcastic, then turned to look at Mason. He looked down at the table guiltily, then over to the other side of the restaurant. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him angrily for a brief moment, but not brief enough for both Rube and Roxy not to notice. Finally, she turned back to those two, muttering something indecipherable about work. With her Post-It in hand, George spun around and headed back towards the door.

"Have a good one." Rube called out as the door swung shut.

"I would say that was strange, but knowing that girl…" Roxy didn't finish her thought, and instead put her police hat back on and stood up. "I'll catch ya later, Rube."

"Bye Roxy!" Mason called out eagerly, turning around in his seat as she walked away.

"Whatever, Mason." She called out, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

"So I guess it's just you and me, Rubey." Mason said as he reached over and grabbed the leftovers from Roxy's plate and placed them on his own.

Rube glared across the table at him suspiciously. He had that glint in his eye that Mason hated so much; the glint that told you that he knew _exactly_ what was going on, but he wasn't going to say a thing. Not a single thing. He would just sit there, waiting for you to spill your guts, which was inevitable because no one has as much willpower as grand master Rube.

"You got something you want to tell me about?" He urged, leaning comfortably back onto the linoleum seat.

"What?" Mason laughed nervously and instinctually stuffed more food into his mouth. "I have no idea what you're talking about Rube."

"Yes you do. Hellen fucking Keller would have noticed something strange was going on between the two of you. And trust me on this one, I reaped her."

Suddenly, Mason felt the room getting hotter and sweat beads starting to form on his forehead. He was all nerves, and there was absolutely no way of getting around it. Not with _that _man's stone-face staring back at you, beating its little beady eyes into your soul, ready to suck you dry. A fucking vampire, that's what Rube was.

"Strange? What? Me? Around George? What? George? Me? Oh, Rubey, you've lost your bloody mind, you have!" Mason stuttered and bumbled, dropping his fork two times and his knife three. A goofy grin was plastered to his face, but he couldn't stop his right eye from twitching.

Rube simply continued to stare at him, not only suspicious, but thoroughly disturbed and disgusted by Mason's strange reaction. Mason continued fidgeting before finally shouting, "bloody fuckin' hell, Rube! What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Fuck me!"

Rube lifted an arm and rested it on the back of the booth, raising an eyebrow at his fellow reaper before slowly turning his attention back towards his waffles and extra, extra crispy bacon, shaking his head disdainfully.

---

"Alright kids, Papa Bear has decided to be nice today, so you better fuckin' appreciate it." It was 8 AM on Friday morning, and to everyone's surprise, both George and Mason had arrived at Der Waffle Haus; _on time_, no less. Although they were both present, the tension between them was as thick as the stack of blueberry pancakes on Rube's plate, and everyone knew it. They still hadn't spoken to each other, and it was starting to weigh heavy on Mason's mind, as evidenced by his shoddy appearance. His hair was a mess, he hadn't shaved, had large, dark bags under his eyes, and basically looked like he was just hit by a bus. Ordinarily, George would be worried about her friend, but not now. Now she was one hundred percent certain that he deserved to feel as shitty as he looked. "Roxy, you get the day off. Mason," Rube reached out and stuck a Post-It in front of the languid British man. Mason moaned before snatching it up and holding it two inches from his eyes, squinting as he read it. "And of course, we can't forget little miss Peanut over here," George rolled her eyes as he placed her Post-It in front of her. "The two of you get to go to a pretty prestigious event downtown tonight. Which means…" The two of them looked confused as he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope, clearly containing cash, "chump change. So you can dress the part."

"Bloody brilliant!" Mason grinned widely and immediately reached out to grab the envelope from Rube, only to have it snatched away. He frowned and folded his arms across his chest like a spoiled child. Rube handed the envelope to George, and she smiled slyly.

"Peanut, I'm giving you the sole responsibility to make this one," he motioned to Mason with his head, "look decent and respectable. I'm talking the works. Hose him down if you have to."

"Will do, boss," George replied, fingering through the money in the envelope.

With that Rube grabbed his jacket and slid out of the booth. He leaned on the table, looking at George, then over at Mason. "You'll have to pretend to like each other tonight, so you better get over whatever drama is going on between the two of you."

She looked at him curiously before speaking up. "Exactly what kind of an event _is_ this?"

"It's a fundraiser ball. And you're his date." Rube put on his jacket, and quickly left, not allowing any time for either of them to protest. George plopped back down into her chair with a huff before glaring over at Mason, who looked confused, yet utterly terrified.

"A ball? A fucking ball?" He squeaked, then looked over at her. Her expression was cold and unsympathetic as she simply stared at him, her head tilted slightly. Mason let out an exhausted sigh and shook his head in frustration, averting his gaze from her searing one.

"I'll have you know, _Mason_, that you have no fucking right to be such a fucking jerk to me. I have done _nothing _to you to warrant this behavior, and quite frankly, I take offense to it. But instead of continuing with whatever ridiculous game we have going on here, I'm just gonna come out and say that you're an asshole and need to stop giving me the fucking silent treatment because I didn't do anything to deserve it."

His jaw dropped and his mouth immediately opened in defense. "I'll have _you_ know that it takes _two_ to make the silent treatment actually work, so…You're not one to talk, missy."

"One, that makes no fucking sense. Two, you fucking know that's the only way I could get back at you for being such a bastard to me."

Again, he opened his mouth, ready to protest, but was silenced by the warning finger she had pointed in his face. "Now I'm gonna say this once and only once, so you better listen good. We're gonna stop this stupid shit and be friends again, okay? Because, as much as I hate to admit it, life is fucking boring without you're freeloading and idiocy to keep me entertained."

He could have sworn that steam was coming out of her ears, yet he couldn't stop a smile from creeping on his lips and his eyes from sparkling. She truly had a way with words. He missed her sarcastic, yet incredibly endearing jibes, and in that instant, he forgot about everything that had been plaguing him for the past week. Sure, those…_feelings_...were still there – almost unbearably so – but right then, it didn't matter, because all he wanted was to have his Georgie-girl back. It had been much too long since he'd seen her smiling face and felt her biting sarcasm.

"Deal?" She asked, her voice slightly softer this time.

He looked at her for a pregnant moment with a typically adoring grin on his face. Finally, her defenses broke, and she smiled back at him. He laughed and just shook his head at her, his eyes betraying his casual demeanor. After a prolonged moment he nodded slowly, then tore his eyes away and stared at his menu. "Deal."

George let out a huge sigh of relief, then picked up her menu and scanned over it. "Whaddya say we go all out? I mean breakfast _is _on Rube after all…" She grinned mischievously and peeked out from behind her menu, envelope in hand. Mason leaned over the table and laughed, snatching the envelope from George and raising it in the air.

"Kiffany, darling!"

_**TBC**_


	7. seven

**7. **

"I never understood the American fascination with these fucked up _malls_." Mason said as he stared at a couple of goth teenagers making out by a fountain. "It just goes to show you that we, as a society, are slave to our own wealth. It defines us, it sustains us, and most importantly, it keeps us looking _hot_…Oh capitalism is a beautiful thing, isn't it, Georgie? Now what store shall we frolic through first?"

"I think it would be a good idea of we keep the frolicking to a minimum today." George commented as they weaved their way through the teenagers and adults who were milling about.

"Oh, come _on_. Couldn't you spare just a little bit of frolicking? It's fun, I promise. We can lock arms and everything." Mason grinned and nudged her with his elbow. She glared at him disdainfully.

"I'm pretty sure Brooks Brothers has a strict No Frolicking rule, with absolutely no exceptions." She retorted immediately, waving her hand to emphasize her point.

"And since when has good ol' Mason here ever followed rules or any sort of restrictive impositions placed on one's life?" He stared out across the mall as he spoke, distracted by the shiny stores and masses of people. Keeping his attention was certainly a feat, and George was shocked she had maintained it for this long.

She stopped where she was and simply stared at him stone-faced. He stopped also, and turned to face her. "No frolicking," she grumbled, and he frowned sadly.

"You are an angry, angry human being."

---

"I don't like this, George. I don't like this one bit." Mason called out from behind his dressing room door as she sat in the hall, rolling her eyes.

"That's not for you to decide. Plus, you've hated everything you've tried on in the past five stores. And if you didn't notice, it's getting pretty late and I haven't even found a dress yet."

"You should really go with something scandalous. Nothing spells sexy more than scandal. Knock 'em dead, know what I'm saying?"

"MASON. Get out here. _Now_."

With that, Mason hopped out of his dressing room, clearly frightened by her warning tone.

"Alright, alright!" He replied, shaking his head. "_Now_ do you see what I'm talking about?"

George just stared at him, her jaw agape, and a smile slowly creeping over her lips. "That. Is. _Perfect_." She jumped from her chair and tugged on Mason's right sleeve before taking a step back, crossing her arms, and shaking her head in approval. "Fuck, I'm good. _Really good._ I should seriously consider a future in fashion consulting."

"But Geeeorgie," he whined, slouching his shoulders and making a disgusted face, "this suit is all wrong. _All wrong_."

"What's so wrong about it?"

"First of all, it has pinstripes."

"Pinstripes are hot."

"That may, in fact, be true, but not on tall, lanky Brits such as myself. All it does is call even more attention to the fact that I'm freaklishly tall and, well, lanky. It simply won't do."

"Pinstripes are classy."

"Yes, but—"

"Mason. You're wearing the pinstripes."

"Okay, fine. But hear me out, will you? This suit is too stifling. It reminds me of what my parents used to make me wear back in the day. I just feel uncomfortable in it, Georgie. Are you going to respect my opinion or not?"

"I think I'm going to go with the latter and say no, I will not respect your opinion. Now I understand, this look isn't very you. And although I must say I prefer your look to this, you look good, Mason. Really good." She preferred _his_ look to this. He had a look. And she preferred it. He smiled inwardly, feeling suddenly triumphant. "And if it's that bad, then I'll cut you some slack and say you can ditch the tie."

"Alright, but—"

"And I also understand that you probably don't feel very comfortable in this, but it's just one night, and you can pretend, can't you?" She stood there with her arms crossed in front of her, staring expectantly at Mason. He looked down at his feet; the gaping holes in his socks making the occasional toe pretty unmistakable. He took a deep breath and suddenly clutched his chest emotionally.

"I'm sorry, George, but this just brings back too many painful memories." He shut his eyes tightly, fighting back tears. She simply stood there, watching the spectacle play out before her as he lifted his hands and rubbed his face tiredly before speaking up again. "Back then, life was so different. Everything was so structured, so safe, you know? I had my mum and my dad, and they had this image of me that they wanted so desperately to maintain. The heir of the family name; their only son who would graduate first in his class in Oxford before traveling the world and bringing fame, fortune, and even more prestige to the family. But no. I had to break free; _live my life_...In other words, become a destitute druggie." He sighed sadly, pausing for a moment before continuing. "All I did my whole life was disappoint my parents and we never spoke to each other after I left. I died without even having the chance to clear the air and tell them that, regardless of all that shit, I'm still their son and I still love them. I never got the chance, George." He was now on the verge of tears, leaning on the wall for support. "I never got the chance." George just stared at him, unaffected by his little act.

"Aaand, scene. Mason. Cut the bullshit, you're wearing the pinstripes." She said resolutely before grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "Now change, we still have a lot of shit to take care of before tonight."

"Oh, fuck it!"

---

It took exactly thirty three minutes to reach the banquet hall from George's place, yet Mason could have sworn it took years. Although they had spent the afternoon shopping together, he had somehow managed to take his mind off of what had been bothering him for the past week. But now that they were in such close quarters, he found it harder to avoid. He never noticed how uncomfortable the passenger side seat was and how stifling seat belts were until _thist_ particular car ride. And although the radio was on, filling the silence between them with melodies and harmonies, slightly easing what _could_ be construed as awkward first date jitters, it didn't help take his mind off of her. Sitting inches away from him. In that dress.

He tried desperately to keep his attention directed on anything but her, but the task grew increasingly hard as his eyes kept wandering over; every movement heightened under his watchful gaze. He watched intently as she placed a stray strand of hair behind her ear; as she reached to change the station, then bobbed her head to the music; as her calf flexed as she hit the gas.

The first time she caught him staring, she laughed and asked if everything was alright. He turned and smiled to himself, thankful that she couldn't see him blush in the dark. He told her she cleaned up real good, and then cast his eyes upward, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars. She grinned to herself, strangely excited.

The second time she caught him staring, she asked if she had something in her teeth, because if she did and he didn't tell her, she'd fucking kill him. He just laughed, shook his head, and looked back out the window.

The third time she caught him, he looked away before their eyes met. She didn't say anything; no lame jokes, no sarcastic quips. Instead, she pursed her lips and stared back out over the road, suddenly nervous. They didn't say anything for the rest of the ride over.

---

"Bloody fuckin' Hell. Look at them. Look at them all. Yupping around like the yuppies they are." Mason scoffed as they entered the hall. George just rolled her eyes; considering the number of guests at this particular fundraiser gala, they could have had it much worse off. It was a relatively low key event, with a crowd large enough to make finding the Davenports in question a difficult task, but small enough to make it nowhere near impossible. She glanced down at her Post-It, studying it briefly before shoving it into her cleavage. "Ow-ow! Look at Georgie-girl here, aking a turn for the kinky!"

She scowled and held nothing back as she punched Mason hard in the arm. "Shut the fuck up!" She snarled, pointing a warning finger at him. "You are going to be on your best behavior tonight, got it?"

He simply stood there, his jaw agape and shoulders hunched as he rubbed his now sore arm. "…Alright. Jesus Christ, you could have just asked politely and I would have agreed."

"And that means no booze until the souls have been reaped. Got it?" Immediately, he opened his mouth in protest, prompting George to raise her fist again. Terrified by the sight, he shut his mouth and nodded his head quickly.

"Got it. No booze 'til the deed's done."

Normally, finding two people in a crowd of two hundred would be a nearly impossible task to accomplish on such short time. Luckily for George and Mason, it seemed as though J. and M. Davenport were related. Not only were the soon-to-die married, they also just-so-happened to attend George and Mason's imaginary engagement party, thus giving the reapers a completely legitimate – that is, if lies somehow constituted legitimacy – reason to find good ol' Jim and Missy. They had to thank them, of course! For the lovely crystal vase and set of wine glasses. They knew it would just look _lovely _beside their three kitchen guillotines.

"So how did you do it, son? Get down on one knee, like us old timers did back in the day?" It took all the willpower Mason could muster to hold back the laughter. He bit his lip, feigned a misty, doe-eyed look, then reached his arm around George's shoulders and pulled her close to him, much to her surprise and disapproval.

"Oh, it was only the best for my little Georgie-girl here." He kissed the side of her forehead, secretly reveling in it until he felt a sharp pinch in his side. "FUC—" He stopped himself before the expletive exploded out of his mouth, turned to George with a saccharine sweet smile and narrow eyes, then turned back towards the couple. "It was lovely, really. A candlelight dinner on the beach; starry night, not a cloud in the sky. The ring was in her glass of champagne. But," he laughed and shook his head jokingly, "I forgot my darling Georgia isn't exactly the _sharpest_ tool in the box, if you know what I'm saying," Mason nudged the stout old man playfully then squeezed George tightly, getting back at her for the pinch. "My poor baby choked on it! The rock got stuck in her windpipe; tore the thing up. I had to do the Heimlich and everything…First time in years. She almost died, she did! Right there and then!" He paused for a moment, sighing nostalgically. "It was _terribly_ romantic…Wasn't it, darling?" The older couples standing around them gasped in horror and George simply stared at Mason disdainfully.

"More like terrible," she grumbled, giving him her trademark death stare. He let out a loud, exaggerated laugh, then rubbed her arm playfully.

"Oh, you're so silly, my little lovey-dovey…Chia…Pet…" he trailed off, confusing himself with his own ridiculousness. She simply stared at him in complete and utter disapproval. She shook her head sadly, then turned to the couples around them.

"It was lovely meeting you all, it really was." With that, the two of them gracefully excused themselves from the conversation and took a seat at a table strategically placed within striking distance of both the dance floor and the bar.

"What the fuck, Mason? _What the fuck?_" She asked, smacking him angrily.

"Whaaat? What did I do now! I thought I played it off well. Very convincing, if I do say so myself."

"Your 'lovey-dovey-Chia-Pet'!"

"Okay, everything except that, really…"

George sighed, shaking her head. "Whatever, lets just find this couple so we can get out of here. This place is seriously giving me the creeps. It's reeks of …Old people with excessive amounts of money."

"That it does, Georgie, that it does." He thought to himself for a moment, then turned to her. "Do you think they have a Bentley, these Davenports? Fuck, I could really use a Bentley."

"What could you _possibly_ need a Bentley for?" She asked, looking over at him skeptically.

"There's plenty I need it for." He rolled his eyes as she continued to stare at him, not buying a word of what was coming out of his mouth. "And why do I suddenly need to justify my need for a Bentley to _you_ of all people?"

"'Of all people'? What the fuck is that supposed to mean!" He rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated by the bickering that seemed to characterize their relationship. As he looked up, he caught sight of the Davenports; heading in their direction, no less.

"As much as I'd love to continue this amazingly fascinating line of questioning, I must propose that we postpone it for another time and place. Preferably to never." Before she could get another word out, he motioned to the Davenports. She shook her head and sighed heavily, marched over to the couple, took Missy's soul from behind, then sat back down.

"Don't think they're gonna get in the way of what I was saying." Mason just laughed, and looked down at her with a huge smile on his face.

"You are really one of a kind, George." He said, his eyes glowing as he turned away and walked toward Jim Davenport.

"Hey there, Jimbo. Great party here, yeah? Here's a drink, on me." Mason patted the man's back – effectively taking his soul – and gave him a warm smile before walking back over to George.

"Real smooth," George joked, trailing off, as her attention was diverted to an older couple dancing pretty spryly for their age. She looked at them, slightly confused, but mostly disturbed. Mason just watched her, a silly grin on his face, and his head tilted to one side. After spending a few minutes in silence – she pretending not to know he was staring at her, and he thinking he was getting away with the crime of the century without her even noticing – he reached his hand out reluctantly and placed it on her knee. She looked down at it, then up at him; he was all smiles with a hint of nervous energy. She smiled back, unsure whether she should be unsettled or excited.

"Dance with me, Georgie." He blurted out suddenly.

The smile on her face seemed to grow wider and brighter, and he sprung up from his seat with a hop in his step as he extended a hand to her. "Sure," she replied with a light laugh, as she took his hand and they made their way to the dance floor and began to move with the music. Their bickering, sarcastic banter from mere moments before seemed to be forgotten entirely as he smiled down at her and twirled her around, laughing as she squealed with each spin. He never took her as being the squealing type, but he figured you learn something new every day. She, on the other hand, despised the squealing type, and would blame her behavior solely on champagne consumption; Mason may not have been allowed any alcoholic beverages, but that didn't mean they were off limits to her.

After spending their first few moments on the dance floor goofing around, they were surprised as the music transitioned almost seamlessly from that relatively up-tempo, jazzy number to a slow, smooth one. As the rich voice of the heavyset woman standing with the band crooned through the speakers, Mason watched his hands slide slowly down the sides of George's body, finally resting resolutely on her hips. His movement surprised her – and him too, at that – and her eyes suddenly were glued to his grip. When she finally looked back up at him, she saw his Adam's apple rise and fall as he swallowed, his nerves rearing their ugly head once again. Languidly, he dragged his eyes from her tiny frame up to meet hers. His smile was friendly but deceiving, but there was a glint in his eye that she wasn't entirely familiar with. She smiled back at him, a little more at ease with his smiling face staring back at her rather than a serious one.

His eyes dropped down again, and he chuckled lightly to himself before tugging on her waist, effectively closing the gap between them. He could have sworn he heard a gasp escape her lips as her midsection and his met and melded into one. He smiled to himself, and when he realized her hands were stiffly at her side, his smile only grew. He reached over and gently lifted her wrists over his shoulders and let them rest on the back of his neck before reclaiming her hips as his own. He tried to hide the grin that so desperately wanted to come out, but failed miserably.

"You're tense," although she shouldn't see his smile, she could hear it in his voice. She couldn't help but find it strange that somehow, by not saying her name, the whole thing felt so much more…intimate. Perhaps it had to do with the way his voice was an octave lower than usual or maybe how he was speaking barely above a whisper. She felt goose bumps spread over her arms, and as she closed her eyes images of Mason as more than _just a friend_ began to flood her senses. "Stiff as a bloody board."

"I guess I've never really done this before." She replied as she slowly opened her eyes, only to be greeted, once again, by that familiar smile that washed away all the distracting thoughts in her mind. Maybe she was just imaging it; the longing in his eyes and the hunger in his voice. Yes, that was it. It was all just a figment of her imagination. She forced a smile – which gradually became genuine – and continued telling herself that it was _just Mason_. He looked at her, slightly surprised, and shook his head with a smile.

"Don't worry, love, it's easy. Just follow my lead."

As they began to move to the music, the gaze she had firmly planted on the second button of his shirt slowly made its way to his lips. She stared at them, feeling strangely overcome with feelings foreign to her when it came to Mason. He simply looked down at her, his eyes locked on her preoccupied gaze. A voice in his head told him this was a good thing – a _very_ good thing – and for a moment, he pondered the meaning of such an overt signal. Maybe now was the time. Maybe this was the exact moment when he was to act on everything he had been struggling with for the past week, and, to be completely and utterly cliché, seal it with a kiss. He swallowed again, nervous, but thankful that George was lost in her own thoughts.

After much deliberation, Mason let his eyes close and he leaned in closer to her, resting the side of his head on the side of hers. Their bodies swayed rhythmically to the music, and without even realizing it, his hands began to drift from her hips to her back, slowly working their way to the uppermost edge of her dress, then back down to where they were. She let her eyes droop closed; after all, she was _un_dead, not _dead _dead. And although thinking about how she felt about all this was confusing, the signals her hormones were sending her brain were pretty crystal clear. She let her hands relax and he instinctively pulled her closer as her fingers ran through his hair.

Slowly, her hands slid down from the back of his neck, resting finally on his chest. She lifted her head, her eyes fluttering open and her face mere inches from his. His gaze was heated, and fixed firmly on her lips; no trace of a smile was there this time, and suddenly she felt a magnetic pull between the two of them as their mouths got closer and closer…

"Oh my god, Jim's having a heart attack! SOMEONE CALL 9-1-1!"

Immediately, George jumped backwards, startled and on edge. They both turned to watch as a large crowd gathered around a faintly struggling Mr. Davenport. Mason looked down at his watch: 8:19 PM.

_J. Davenport  
4378 Lakeshore Drive  
8:22 PM_

After a moment, two young men ran from the center of the commotion to get help, revealing a crouched Mrs. Davenport, by the side of her husband, martini in hand and eyes bulging.

_M. Davenport  
4378 Lakeshore Drive  
8:23 PM_

Mason reached out to George, then pointed in the direction of Mrs. Davenport. While everyone was bustling around trying to tend to her husband, they didn't realize that she was crouching on the ground, choking to death on the olive from her martini.

Mason looked away from the scene playing out in front of them, then back at George. He watched her as she stared out at the frantic tumult, her eyes slightly pained and the creases on her forehead growing deeper. Biting his lower lip, he reached his hand out, letting it brush down the side of her arm. Her attention immediately turned to his touch, then slowly made its way up to his face. He smiled softly, his eyes on her arm rather than her gaze. Finally, he let his hand trail down to hers and he picked it up softly, bringing it to his lips. He looked up at her with that glint in his eye before placing a gentle kiss on the back of her hand.

"Thanks for the dance, darling." Mason brought her hand back down to her side before letting go and turning around to walk towards the crowd. She suddenly felt lightheaded as she watched the souls of Mr. and Mrs. Davenport walk towards Mason, hand in hand. He greeted them with outstretched arms.

"What a grand finale! You certainly gave the crowd a show they'll never forget. Now, if you don't mind…Shall we?"

---

"Being the typical male I am, I must say that if I don't drive you home, I will suffer a _severe _trauma to my ever-fragile ego." Mason's hands were shoved deep in his pockets and his shoulders shrugged as he leaned forward towards George. She forced a smile and hugged the jacket slung loosely over her shoulders – _his _jacket – closer to her. She still didn't know what to think about what had passed between them, and even though Mason seemed to be in typical form at the moment, she couldn't help but think that maybe his strange behavior for the past week wasn't so strange after all. Before she could think any more about it, she felt a nudge from behind, and saw his bony fingers wiggling at her side, waiting for the keys to be dropped into them. "C'mon, you're absolutely exhausted. Not to mention slightly inebriated. I'll drive you back."

"Thanks, Mason," she replied distantly, handing him the keys before opening the door and settling down in the front seat.

Mason looked down at the keys in his hands, frowning exaggeratedly. Quite frankly, he didn't expect to win them without a bit of a fight. It definitely wasn't like George to just _hand over _the keys to her car, let alone to _him_. She was behaving strangely, indeed, and Mason let out a little chuckle to himself as he opened the door, thinking that maybe he had a sneaking suspicion about what seemed to be preoccupying her mind. _Perhaps our roles have reversed_, he thought wishfully as he plopped into the driver's seat.

As he put the keys in the ignition, he snuck a glance over at a forlorn George as she stared – almost sadly – out the window into the dark night. Letting his forehead rest on the steering wheel, he watched her for a moment before finally speaking up.

"Hey," he said softly before reaching over and nudging her arm gently, "penny for a thought?" She shook her head softly as if he had startled her, and then looked over at him with a tired smile.

Her eyes drooped closed then open again, and almost as fast as they connected with his, they were averted to the gear. She took a deep breath before answering, "nothing, I'm just tired, that's all."

He looked at her skeptically and she simply leaned back in the chair, letting her head lean on the head rest and her eyes droop closed once again. There was too much swimming through her mind to try to talk to Mason about _anything_, let alone how she was feeling. He continued staring at her for a prolonged moment before lifting his head, sighing heavily and turning the key.

"It's been a long day," he said tiredly, "and believe me, I know…Too much Mason is _not_ a good thing." He laughed to himself.

"I don't need to believe you, I know firsthand." She shot back sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

_Definitely a good sign_, Mason thought to himself, grinning as he signaled to turn.

After a few moments, they settled into a comfortable silence, and he reached over to the radio, trying to find something to fill the empty air between them. It took a couple minutes of channel surfing before he settled on an obvious winner: classic rock. As the faint sounds of Pink Floyd floated through the air, George let her mind wander, her eyes captivated by the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the steering wheel.

"Why have you been avoiding me for the past week?" She asked finally, her voice quiet but firm.

Mason couldn't get himself to look at her, afraid that if he did, he may actually tell her the truth. Instead, he swallowed nervously, then shook his head and feigned surprise. "You've lost your bloody mind! Of course I haven't been avoiding you."

"_Mason_." She urged, tearing her eyes from out the window and over to him. It only took a moment under her searing gaze for him to finally give in. He let out a tired laugh poorly disguised as a sigh and continued staring decisively at the road in front of him.

"Alright, alright. Maybe I _have _been avoiding you. Only a little, though."

"Why?" She asked anxiously, even though she was fairly certain she already knew the answer.

"Georgie," he sighed heavily, finally turning and looking at her. Her name hung in the air between them as a battle waged within. A part of him knew that she felt the same way he did, but whether she was willing to admit it or not was another story altogether. She stared at him expectantly; unsure whether she really wanted to know the answer. After a beat, he turned his attention back towards the road, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "Yes, I was avoiding you…But it wasn't _just_ you..." The tension in her shoulders suddenly eased and a wave of relief washed over her as he spun lie after lie, each successive one more elaborate than the previous. "…So you see, it wasn't you at all." He finished finally.

After listening to him weave his tale of angst and self-discovery, George couldn't help but feel at least a little bit disappointed. Although the sheer thought of hearing what she was almost certain he was going to say terrified her, it would be a lie if she said she didn't want to hear it. She may not have known how she would have responded, but she had a sneaking feeling that she wouldn't have been altogether opposed to the idea.

She smiled wearily and studied his profile. "Hey, you up for some lame syndicated sitcoms tonight?" She asked finally, turning her head away from him and staring back out the window into the darkness.

"Need you even ask?"

_**TBC**_


End file.
